Page 111 of A Palace of Smoke & Mirrors
Besides, I couldn’t die at anyone else’s hands, or Tommy would spend eternity trapped in solitary confinement because the person he needed to haunt had become a ghost herself.Considering what I had done to him, that was reason enough for me to remain alive.
On the other hand, though, there was absolutely no way that I would willingly give myself over to the Court of Darkness. No way at all. I’d sooner die, but then I’d be breaking promises to both humans and faeries alike—the Spectre and Brynn.
None of that even mattered when I was being completely honest with myself in the mirror, though. When I stared at my reflection, remembering the way that Lucais had smudged the makeup on my face so he could still see the wine-coloured birthmark that spilled across my left eyebrow, and took several deep breaths before permitting the thoughts to take centre stage in my mind.
For better or worse, I wanted to be with Lucais.
The flood gates had opened. He was a craving I’d likely regret satisfying during the lulls, but I couldn’t get him out of my head during the peak of my hunger. I was worn down from trying to piece together the fragments of reasons to avoid our fate, and I was scared to admit that I was capable of being so outwardly selfish. The fuse was there, and I was holding the match, so all I had left to do was strike it and embrace the rapturous feeling of blowing my entire reality into smithereens.
If it imploded his world at the same time, he would have to shoulder the blame. He would have to take an equal share of the responsibility for the catastrophic consequences we faced—and I would have to find a way to let him—which was something he seemed very much prepared to do when I walked into his room and found the entire space alight with faelight orbs and burning candles.
The High King of Faerie’s bedroom in the palace was considerably grander than his dishevelled room at the House had been. It was large enough to rival the great hall where the throne sat, and carved from rough-textured grey stone, brokenup by numerous rectangular windows, each covered by white chiffon curtains that gathered in ruffles at the top.
His furniture was lavish but simple—a mirrored dressing table beside a matching set of drawers constructed from heavy red oak, a set of six bookcases that increased in height like steps towards the high coffered ceiling, a large desk and simple wooden chair, and finally a second, much longer bureau.
In the middle of the room, an enormous sheer canopy bed sat like an island of fluffy pillows, silky sheets, and thick blankets. A trunk identical to the one in my bedroom was placed at the foot, and Wrenlock sat perched upon it in a sleeveless dark grey tunic and pants, his elbow resting on his knee, his head bent to prop his chin up on his fist. He looked devastatingly handsome in the firelight, the warm undertones of his deep brown skin set aglow by the flames. When he saw me, his depthless eyes brightened, and he lifted his head, giving me a small smile.
Lucais stood at the dresser behind him, clad in black—a pair of loose pants and a button-up shirt that hung open, revealing the smooth, perfect planes of his chest and stomach. The definition of his muscles made my mouth water as I traced the lines with my eyes, from the tight set of his abdominals all the way down to the sharp cut of his hips dipping below the waistband of his pants.
To further deepen the contoured ridges on his body, he was decorated with tattoos. They were etched onto his skin with dark ink, but they almost surely held some type of magical properties, like they might shift colour or change shape when nobody was looking at them. I made a mental note to ask him about them later—along with all of the many other questions I had stored somewhere in my head, saved for a time we could talk without snapping at one another or making heartfelt declarations of love.
I was aching to follow the lines vanishing beneath his shirt, eager to map all of them out and commit the landscape of his body to memory. My recollections of the nightmares were growing foggier by the day to the point where I felt as though I was seeing the High King’s body for the very first time as he lingered by the dressing table. The back of his shirt was reflected in the mirror as he stood there, a drink in one hand, rubbing the fingers of his other hand against his palm and thumb as he watched me step into the room and close the door behind me.
I hesitated on the threshold, trying to still my wild heart.
If I took a step further into the room, there was no question about it being a choice. The Court and Oracle be damned—because nobody suggested or prophesised that I should sleep with both of them on the same day, let alone at the sametime. It was all our own doing, our very own decision, our way of rewriting the star-told story for which we had been destined.
His blond hair shone like the sun in the combined illumination of light and fire, and I knew in an instant that Lucais standing there, looking at me like that, was the most beautiful sight I would ever see. And I needed it desperately after seeing so much horror.
I stepped into the room.
“I didn’t think there were any candles in the palace,” I said quietly. “At least, not any that were still usable.”
He lifted a shoulder. “We keep relics from previous rulers in a separate part of the palace. I figured that this was a human sort of notion, and the occasion called for it.”
“That was sweet of you.”
The High King swallowed, the motion visible even from where I stood across the room, and dragged his gaze away from mine with visible reluctance. “Would you like a drink?” he offered, gesturing to a large crystal bottle filled with dark red liquid on the top of his drawers.
Biting my lip, I weighed my options. I’d never consumed faerie wine before because it never ended well for humans in all of the fables, but if there was ever a time to start…
“One glass will have a moderate effect on you, I’d assume,” he added, ducking his head. “But it’s your choice.”
Moderate effect.
At least he was being honest.
“I’ll have half a glass, then, please.”
The High King nodded and busied himself pouring me a drink.
We crossed the room at the same time, meeting each other in the middle. The atmosphere was thick, the air perfumed with the scent of frangipanis, musk, and the ink between the pages of an old book. When he passed me the glass, our fingers brushed, and an illicit thrill ran through me. I lost control of my breathing pattern and the rush went straight to my head, making me feel suddenly light on my feet. I hadn’t even sipped the fucking faerie wine yet, and all he’d done was touch my hand, yet my heart felt like it was hurtling down a steep incline with faulty brakes and there was a hot, pulsating tension building in my core.
I downed the entire half glass of thin, sugary liquid in one go.
“That was… Uh, okay. Easy now.” Lucais took the glass back from me and returned it to the crystal tray on the top of his dresser, pausing to give me a strange look over his shoulder before he put it down. It could have been admiration as easily as it might have been disapproval.
The wine was delicious—a heady taste that carried a lovely sharpness once it was swallowed. I immediately wanted more, but I refrained and started to wonder if the stories of humans losing all of their wits at the hands of the drink were less about the liquid’s potency and more about the consumer’s gluttony. In any case, it was already going to my head, magnifying the light,airy feeling I was falling victim to simply from being in the room with the two of them and all of the candles.
